


Slivovitz and Scotch

by RuBecSo



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Alcohol, Drunkenness, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Jewish Holidays, M/M, Meyer is an angry drunk kitten and everyone around him is a bad influence, Pre-Relationship, Smoking, Very Mild Antisemitism, Yiddish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-12 03:03:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20557157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuBecSo/pseuds/RuBecSo
Summary: “Charlie! Charlie, come down here. We need your help!” Benny laughed, a manic gleam in his eye. “We need a sober goy to take care of Meyer.”---On Purim in 1920, Charlie ends up looking after a very drunk Meyer after he's dumped on his doorstep.





	Slivovitz and Scotch

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a roleplay thread I did with my friend pepsiwithlemon; I wrote Meyer, he wrote Charlie. I rearranged it and edited it down a lot (I ended up cutting about 1000 words). My hope is that the POV shifting is easy to follow and flows well. If it works please let me know and I'll have a go at doing the same for some of our other threads :)
> 
> There's a lot of Yiddish and one bit of Hebrew. Translations are in the end note.
> 
> Slivovitz is a plum brandy from Eastern Europe. In the US it's mostly associated with Jewish immigrants from that area.

** _BRRIIIING!_ **

In the early hours of a cold March night in 1920, three young men were gathered on the stoop of an apartment building on the Lower East Side. A round-faced red-head jabbed one of the buttons with his thumb.

“Hey Sal!”

A much smaller man looked up from his seat on the stone steps below.

“It’s Charlie, Red.”

“Oh, s’cuse me.” He pressed the button again.

** _BRRRRIIIIIIING!_ **

“Hey Charlie!”

A wiry kid a couple years younger than the others banged on the door with his fist

** _BAM BAM BAM!_ **

“Charlie! Charlie, come down here. We need your help!” He laughed, a manic gleam in his eye. “We need a sober goy to take care of Meyer.”

Meyer glared up at him. “Benny, I don’t need—”

“You’re it, Sal!” chimed in Red.

“_Charlie. _” snapped Meyer.

Benny shoved Red to the side so he could hold down the doorbell.

** _BRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!_ **

“Wake up, we’re freezing our schvantzes off out here!”

“Yeah, wake up!”

** _Ratatatatatatatatatat!_ **

At some point someone had given Benny a noisemaker. This was a terrible decision. 

“Hey Red.” He shot him a mischievous look. “_Barukh Mordechai, arur Haman! _”

** _BAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAM!_ **

** _Ratatatatatatatatatat!_ **

As he knew it would, the end of his sentence was greeted by the sound of Red’s palms slamming on the door, joined by the racket from the noisemaker. Even Meyer did his duty of drowning out the villain’s name by stamping his feet on the sidewalk.

“Hey Charlie!” Benny cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled at the window. “Y’know how I know Jesus was a dago?”

“Chaye, shut your yap!” There was a brief tussle as Red tried in vain to clap his hand over the younger boy’s mouth before he could get the punchline out:

“‘Cause his mother thought he was God and he thought his mother was a virgin!”

Meyer buried his face in his hands. “That’s not how it goes.”

“It works better that way!”

There was a rattling squeak from overhead as a window from the far end of the building flung open.

“Shut the fuck up down there! Some of us gotta work in the morning!” a disembodied voice shouted with the kind of majestic fury only New Yorkers were capable of.

A moment later the door to the front steps was almost launched off its hinges. Charlie stood in the threshold, hair uncharacteristically mussed and a pistol in his hand. There was a moment of contemptuous silence as he inspected the group of boys.

“What the fuck are you doin’?”

He tucked the pistol into his waistband. He’d grabbed it when he heard the cry for help, then realised halfway down the stairs it had been a gag. He wouldn’t need it to gun down any prohis or other gangsters, but it might come in handy for shooting Benny in the head.

Red at least had the good sense to look chastened.

“Uh, hey Charlie.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “We was just—”

Benny, on the other hand, had no such restraint.

“We’re leavin’ Meyer with you ‘cause he’s scared of broads.”

“I am not.” Meyer glared up at him. He pulled himself unsteadily to his feet and climbed the steps.

Charlie pulled the lapels of his smoking jacket over one another, fastening the cord with an exasperated tug. Christ, it _ was _ cold out.

Red shuffled his feet. “Uh, we was gonna head to the cathouse on Bowery and Meyer don’t wanna come— ”

“He told us to bring him here.” Benny cut in.

Meyer’s dark eyes flashed. “I didn’t say that!”

“He’d rather spend the night with you.”

“Gey in drerd!”

Meyer’s fist sailed through the air where Benny’s face had been a few seconds prior. The rest of his body went hurtling after it. He crashed into the railing, while Benny erupted in wild whoops of laughter. 

Charlie ran a hand through his hair, pushing a few curls off his forehead. He tried and failed to subdue the smile tugging at his lips. It was too early for this.

“Knowin’ the kinda broads Benny fucks I don’t blame you.” He dipped a hand into his pocket, reaching for a pack of smokes that wasn’t there. “Least if you stay here you won’t wind up with the clap.”

Meyer gestured inarticulately, staring daggers at Benny. ‘_See, he gets it.’ _Benny spread his arms wide (even his shrugs were larger than life) and flashed Charlie a wicked grin.

“Sour grapes, Charlie. At least _ my _ – ow! _ ” _

Meyer managed to land a blow across the side of his head. There were a few seconds of flailing limbs and bilingual curses before Red managed to get between them.

“How ‘bout it?” He looked at Charlie pleadingly. “Yetta’ll have my balls I take him home like this.”

Benny snickered. “She would y’know.”

Meyer made a token attempt to get free. “Fuck you, Chaye.”

“Sure. I’ll make sure to tuck him in and read him a bedtime story and everything.” Charlie shot a grin in Meyer’s direction. Meyer met it with a scowl cold enough to rival the frosty air.

“Will you shut the fuck up!” came another cry from the windows above. A different voice, but with just as much resounding fury as the first.

“_You _ shut up!” Charlie clapped a hand to his forearm, fist raised in the air. He figured the threat of the Italian salute could be felt even if it went unseen.

“Yeah, shut your yap!” Benny joined in. “It’s Purim – we have to get ferschnicket.”

“‘Says so in the Talmud.” Red mumbled.

“Yeah, that!”

Charlie and Meyer watched their friends scamper off, whooping and hollering under the street lamps. For a moment Meyer looked like he might try and walk back to his family’s place. Then a cold breeze blew down the street and made him shiver.

“_Fine _.”

He pushed off the railing and stumbled past Charlie into the warmth of the hallway. Charlie made just enough room for him to get past, shrugging as if to say ‘_Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’ _

Meyer turned around, fixed Charlie with a bleary eye and shook a finger at him.

“But you even _ try _ and read me a bedtime story, you’re gettin’ a black eye. Understood?”

The severe tone he was attempting was undercut by the fact that he was swaying slightly.

“Yeah, yeah, Fireman Jim Flynn. I’ll take the knockout.” Charlie headed for the staircase, pausing just long enough to make sure Meyer wasn’t about to turn tail and run back home to his Ma. “You still remember which apartment’s mine?”

“Course I do.” He tried to sound dignified, but it came out like a kid trying to convince his older brother he was a big boy now. He followed him slowly up the stairs, one hand groping at the peeling, plaster wall.

Charlie watched him as he fumbled along. “Let’s get you warmed up ‘fore you catch your death. I got some hooch upstairs that’ll do the trick.”

Meyer rolled his eyes. “You’re as bad as them.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Think I already drank half my body weight in slivovitz.”

As he reached the top of the stairs, he misjudged the number of steps and staggered sideways. Charlie reached out to catch him, but the smaller man had already flung out his hand and grabbed the sleeve of his housecoat.

“Only half?” He steadied him, giving him a wide, open smile. “That’d be about a pint. You sure are a lightweight, but I thought it’d take more than that to get ya this zozzled.”

Meyer blinked slowly. There were at least two objectionable things about that joke, but his thoughts were coming to him through molasses and he couldn’t put them together quick enough to come up with a witty reply.

Charlie patted his arm, obscured by the bulk of his too-large overcoat. The fabric of his housecoat stretched and scrunched in Meyer’s fist as he found his balance.

“You remember that putz over on 8th street with the slivovitz operation in his washroom? Back in January.” The exchange had gone too fast for Charlie to understand all the Yiddish, but he remembered that little rictus smile of Meyer’s flashing across his face as he shook down a man older than his hand-me-downs. “Couldn’t tell if he was cussin’ you out or shitting his pants.”

A smile tugged at Meyer’s lips.

“I remember.” A soft chuckle bubbled up from his chest. There was little he found more satisfying than watching someone realise they’d underestimated him. “He’s still kvetching about it. But his envelope’s come in every week.”

Frank and a few of the others had wanted to shut the stubborn old guy down; that or tip the prohis off. _ ‘Ain’t like we need him cutting into our market, right?’ _ Meyer had talked them into letting him and Charlie handle it. As he’d put it: _ ‘As long as there are nostalgic Yids living in the Lower East Side, there’ll be a market for slivovitz. Might as well make sure we profit from it.’ _

His smile widened and pride lit his eyes.

“We did that.”

Usually he’d have kept the thought to himself. There was something about celebrating out loud that felt like tempting fate. He shook his head and took a couple steps, until he felt something tug in his fingers. He realised he had yet to relinquish his grip on Charlie’s sleeve.

For some reason, he didn’t want to.

“C’mon.”

He jerked his head and gave the sleeve another pull. He tottered towards the apartment with the wobbling determination of a newborn foal with an important meeting to attend. Charlie tried not to laugh, but he couldn’t restrain himself for long. Meyer glared at him over his shoulder, aiming at indignant but landing on sulky.

Charlie pulled the door open. “Ain’t locked. Didn’t have time since I thought the prohis were gunnin’ for you guys.”

He hesitated before heading in, breaking the hold Meyer had on his sleeve.

It was dark inside. In his valiant charge down to the stoop he had barely bothered to get dressed let alone turn on a light. He strode over to the rickety end table closest to the door, reached under the beaded fringe of possibly the most vulgarly ornate lampshade to ever exist, and yanked the cord. Light shone through the embroidered lace netting of the shade, barely illuminating the room but enough so neither of them would stub their toes or bang a knee against a table edge.

He motioned to the threadbare sofa, the arm of which was covered by an old quilt to hide the cigarette burns.

“You sit.” Meyer did so, though it might be more accurate to call it a semi-controlled fall. “I got some scotch in the kitchen.” He paused. “And a bucket, case you gotta upchuck.”

Meyer rested his elbows on his knees.

“Fuck you.” he muttered at the floor. He’d settled on belligerent ingratitude as the best way to preserve his dignity.

After a few moments of struggling, he managed to free his arms from his overcoat. He dug through the pockets until he located his pack of Lucky Strikes. He shook a cigarette loose and fumbled with his lighter, hitting clumsily at the spark wheel until he finally got a flame out of it.

From the kitchen there was the sound of the ice box opening, followed by a few clinks of ice against crystal. Charlie strode back in, placing a bottle of scotch and two tumblers on the plain coffee table. He gave a long pour into each glass.

“From Rothstein’s operation. The good stuff."

Meyer shrugged. “Long as it don’t taste of plums I’m golden.” He eyed the gaudy lamp. “I thought you were gonna hock that thing after you lifted it.”

“What, you don’t like it? Makes me feel like I’m livin’ in one of them fancy bordellos. Sure helps set the mood.” An imperceptible pause. “When I got a broad over.” He held out the glass without ice to Meyer. “Here. Put some colour back in your cheeks and some hair on your chest.”

Meyer already had a little colour in his cheeks, but it wasn’t from drink. He found it easy to talk to Charlie, more so than anyone he knew, but an exception to this was when the topic of women came up. At least when Benny got started on that, he could just sit back and let him go on without much need for input.

He swirled the scotch in the glass for a moment, watching it condense on the sides. ‘_That’s how you can tell the quality’ _, Rothstein had said. He took a sip. His eye twitched and he exhaled in a gust as the strong liquor went down.

He looked back up at Charlie. “You give broads the good hooch, too?”

He blinked and recoiled internally. Had he really just said that? He looked away, fixing his eyes on the tumbler in his hand and praying the flush in his face would be blamed on the scotch.

Charlie posted up on the couch, leaving a cushion’s length between them. He fished out a cigarette from Meyer’s pack and held it between his teeth.

“‘Course not. I give ‘em some tap water with a little bit of iodine in it for colour.” He concealed his smirk inside clenched teeth as he lit his cigarette with the lighter Meyer had discarded. “I only break out the real thing for friends.”

He took a long drag, feeling the smoke coil in his lungs. He exhaled and reached for the spare tumbler on the table, lifting it in Meyer’s direction. “L’chaim. Happy New Year or whatever.”

Meyer was still caught up in trying not to let his embarrassment show on his face. When Charlie’s toast finally registered with him, he let his head loll forward and groaned.

“That’s in September.” he muttered into the crook of his arm. He raised his glass in turn. “L’chaim.”

He paused to smoke and then plummeted headlong into the first safe topic of conversation he could find. Well, safe by some measures.

“I still think Rothstein oughta let us bulk up some of the import.” The scotch splashed against the side of his glass as he spoke. “I know for a _ fact _ Waxey Gordon’s doin’ the same with the shipments he gets from us.” He took another drag and barrelled onwards. “Wouldn’t even have t’ be all of it. Could leave half as it is and still double, triple the profits…”

“Meyer, Meyer, Meyer.” Charlie let out a long exaggerated groan, tilting his head back to rest on the curved wooden back of the sofa and pulling another drag from the cigarette in his hand. “Will you relax? Take the night off for once? Didn’t I just wish you a happy holiday? Now act like it. Drink your scotch and stop worryin’ about how to make a nickel off it. It’s too early.”

He punctuated his sentence with a yawn.

Meyer scowled and took a resentful sip. He ought to have seen that coming, but his anger at himself for trying to talk business was quickly redirected at his friend for not letting him. Maybe he _ wanted _ to spend Purim talking shop. Couldn’t he enjoy doing was what he was good at?

“Tell me how your night went.” Charlie continued, “You boys paint a bunch of doors with lambs blood on your way down here?”

Meyer’s head snapped up, dark eyes blazing.

“_Fuck you _ .” The curse had some bite to it this time. “You know that’s Passover. An’ you know that’s just in the story. An’ I _ know _ you know that ‘cause we’ve had you at our seder for th’ last three years.” His words bumped into one another. “So quit actin’ like a sap when you ain’t one.”

Now it was Charlie’s turn to flush. He’d figured he’d risk a bruised arm or a verbal lashing if it meant getting Meyer off the subject of business and onto something personal for a change. But something about the look in his eyes made him feel like a boy again, caught stealing nickels out of the collection plate.

He took another drink to try and mask it.

They lapsed into silence. Meyer hadn’t anticipated that. He’d expected Charlie to either keep pushing or call him a baby for not being able to take a joke. Either way, it would have ended with him dragging himself back down the stairs and trying to make his way home again in the cold, and somehow that would still have been less uncomfortable than this silence.

Then Charlie laughed. It wasn’t loud and raucous, like when he was caught off-guard by some blue joke. Nor was it obfuscated by his hand or his cigarette or his sense of dignity. It was just a laugh; full and soft and carefree.

Meyer moved his eyes to look at him but the rest of him stayed still. He was waiting to see what the joke was.

“You know, three years in a row now I come to dinner at your family’s place. And three years in a row your Ma’s forgotten to add any kinda riser to her bread. This year I’m gonna bring her a whole crate of baking soda so she don’t forget again.” He paused, just to make sure he wasn’t working Meyer up again. “Sure was good brisket though.”

Meyer worked his jaw as he tried not to smile, childishly determined to stay angry. But he couldn’t keep it up. Charlie was still poking fun, but he was doing it in a way that called back to the jokes they’d shared in years past. And just as he knew Charlie knew what Passover was, Meyer also knew he knew what having meat on the family table meant to him.

“Good thing we had you to wolf it down, yeah? Ma woulda hated it to go to waste.”

A thought struck him. He leaned over and tapped the couch between them.

“Hey. There’s a load of hamantaschen left over. You should come by tomorrow an’ help out with that.” Something told him he wouldn’t have much of an appetite come morning.

He tipped over slightly. Charlie reached out to steady him, hand clapped around his shoulder. They lingered there for a moment. Meyer knew he should be embarrassed, but that feeling felt sealed away for now.

Charlie’s fingers rested on the curve of his arms beneath his rumpled dress shirt. The kid was still matchstick thin, but his limbs had an unmistakable weight to them, like he’d been carrying the whole world above his head for years now. No wonder he could pack such a punch despite being so scrawny.

A pang of guilt struck Charlie, he didn’t know why or from where. He let go.

“Sure. Always liked them little cookies.” He filched another cigarette from Meyer’s pack. “It’s late.” Or early. Depended on which way you looked at it. “Better get to bed. Yetta’ll worry herself sick if she don’t see you by noon.”

Meyer felt somehow disappointed, though he knew it made no sense.

“Yeah,” he sighed, pushing himself upright and taking a last drag on his (mostly wasted) Lucky Strike. He looked at the ashtray lying just out of reach, decided it wasn’t worth it, and added to the constellation of scorch marks on the couch arm.

He considered his half-full glass of scotch for a moment, then grimaced and set it down on the table. He glanced up at his friend.

“Hey, Charlie?” He swallowed, his face suddenly serious. “If I tell you somethin’, you promise not to be an asshole about it?”

Why the hell was Charlie’s heart beating so fast? Probably the hooch. And the late (or early) hour. And the fact that Meyer had just further marred his good-for-nothing sofa for no particular reason other than that he was drunk and couldn’t locate the ashtray with typical Meyer precision. That serious look plastered across his damn _ shayna punim _ didn’t help.

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” He mimed the swear across his chest.

Meyer paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. For a moment it looked like he was going to change his mind.

“I hate being drunk.”

The absurdity of the build-up and payoff hit him immediately. He felt the need to clarify.

“I know I’m s’posed to like it. Everyone else does. Wouldn’t have a business otherwise.”

The deferred embarrassment from a minute ago was kicking in. He let himself tip over again, resting his head on the couch between him and Charlie.

“I dunno,” he mumbled into the cushion, “I jus’ like it better when my head works right.”

Charlie looked at him, curled up less than an arm’s length away, and all he could do was smile. He fidgeted with the lighter for a minute, flicking the wheel with more gusto than was necessary. It refused to light all the same. He sighed and tucked it into the pocket of his smoking jacket, the unlit cigarette still hanging from his bottom lip.

Then he reached out to pat Meyer’s bowed head.

“Seems fine to me. I can feel all those cogs spinnin’ still.”

He reached up like he was going to swat him away, but then just rested his hand on Charlie’s.

“Well they feel gummed up t’ me.” His voice was indistinct, both from the couch cushion muffling his words and from the encroaching sleep. “Maybe Rothstein has the right idea…”

He was quiet for a few moments. Then he began to snore.

Charlie sat there for a long time. Too long for it to be natural or unassuming. Meyer’s hand felt heavy on his own and very cold. His hands were always so cold. There was another stab of guilt in his chest, this one placeable; he should have let him in quicker.

After a while, Meyer’s hand slid off its spot on top of Charlie’s. He took this as his cue to take another long draught of liquor and get to his feet. For another moment he hesitated. Then he pulled the patchwork quilt off the sofa and over Meyer’s slumbering form. It was the least he could do.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
Goy = gentile / non-jew  
Schvantz = dick (Benny is kind of speaking Yinglish here because he’s pluralising it using the English ‘-es’ suffix)  
Chaye = animal / wild creature (this was Benny’s nickname around the neighbourhood)  
Barukh Mordechai, arur Haman = ‘Blessed be Mordechai, cursed be Haman’ (traditional Purim phase, with ‘Haman’ getting drowned out by anyone listening)  
Gey in drerd = Go to hell (literally: go into the earth)  
Ferschnicket = Drunk  
L’chaim = ‘To life’ (toast)  
Hamantaschen = Haman pockets (traditional Purim pastry)


End file.
